


big blast sonic

by snugglepup



Series: dangerous and moving [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunters, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Bounty Hunters, Bulges and Nooks, Dieselpunk, Dubious Morality, F/F, Girls with Guns, Hermaphroditic Trolls, Historical Fantasy, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, Lesbian Sex, Mercenaries, Multiple Orgasms, Not exactly WW II but that's the time period here, POV Lesbian Character, Pale Porn, Plot With Porn, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snugglepup/pseuds/snugglepup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can you walk?”, she asks, and you just nod dumbly. You could probably convince yourself that all of this is a dream if you wanted to, but it's not a dream, it's totally real and none of it makes any fucking sense.</p><p>“Pull up the hood. It's not fitted yet, so at night anybody else will just think you've got tiny horns and a complex about them.” The Alt turns to leave, makes it a few steps, and then turns around again. “Get that projectile dispenser back and keep your eyes wide open.”</p><p>[ Dieselpunk lesbian bounty hunters/mercenaries. Porn With Plot, Plot With Porn. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	big blast sonic

**Author's Note:**

> Let's find out if I can do any justice to dieselpunk lesbian mercenaries/bounty hunters!

_get up to rock, get up to burn_

_stand up with pride that burns for your desire_

_one day i noticed that my life was broken_

_it was not me who was controlling this body_

_oh, i want to know what's really real to me_

_before we vanish like a wave_

 

[ _guilty gear vocal collection - big blast sonic_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYD8INQxX0c)

 

* * *

**[ 1932 ]**

**< Where Your Hell Began  >**

* * *

 

A lot of the other passengers are scared. You guess it is kind of loud and smells weird, but not _that_ weird. Mom keeps trying to stop you from exploring, and so do the ladies in the middle part of the plane, but they're all really busy and you're _really_ good at sneaking around. A DC-3, though! Nobody understands why it's so neat. They're all just excited about flying, and that's really, really neat, you even looked out the window for a while and it was pretty amazing, but that's not the only thing here that matters!

Maybe you're really weird, everybody says so, and Mom's always trying to keep you to hold your dress _this_ way and talk _that_ way and no you can't have a _real gun_ to play with and take apart you're a nine year old girl and you have to look good for the corporation and you're embarrassing your family and ugh, Mom is so old-fashioned! It's not like the war just _didn't happen._ All the boys are mad about the jobs the women were taking over while they were out doing what _you_ want to be doing, but no one will let you. You think they're really just mad because people like some of the neighbors and Jane's Dad's friends are better at their jobs that they were. You wish Mom was more like that, or maybe that someday _your_ dad will come home from work and you can finally meet him and then he can be really nice. It's not like you don't love your Mom, she just makes things so complicated and you can't understand why it has to be like that.

Jane's Dad is the _only_ grown-up man who you like, and for some reason he doesn't think about some stuff the same way everybody else does. Well, he doesn't really think about _anything_ the same way as other people, but still! _He_ lets you play around with his stuff if you want to, and he only minds all the grease and oil you get on your dresses because he doesn't want your Mom to get mad at you, _and_ he bakes cakes all the time and lets you have as much as you want.

Her little brother is nice, too. He was kind of mean to you at first when nobody was around, but one time when he was telling you what to do even though he's a whole _year_ younger than, you punched him in the face, and Jane told him he deserved it and he ran crying to his Dad, and he stopped being mean. One time he told you he liked you and you said thanks and he said no, he _Liked_ you, and he had flowers and stuff, which kind of made _you_ mad but not too much, and he didn't get weird when you told him you didn't understand that kind of stuff and you liked him too but not like that, and after you looked at the flowers and found the little gears and things hidden at the bottom under all the stems, you almost felt bad for what you said, but then the next time you went to play with Jane (even though John was there too) you told him that and he said it was okay, and you gave him a hug and said thanks and then everything was okay.

You wish they were all here. It's so amazing! Maybe someday you can sneak out and pretend to be a boy, which isn't _too_ hard even though it's not as easy as it used to be, and then you'll go take apart one of these planes and see how they really work --

“ _Roxanne Lalonde,”_ when you pass by again, and you try so hard not to groan. “You come back here this instant, young lady. You're getting in everyone's way.” The _whole aisle_ is empty! She's just being stupid again. Well, she's going to have to _make_ you come back, then! You're tired of everything being so hard. Aren't rich girls supposed to have easy lives? It's not like you _want_ an easy life, because that would be so boring, but it's not the same. All most people do is get in _your_ way and reassure Mom not to worry and that you'll grow out of it and be a fine young woman before she knows it and you want to go tear up all your prettiest clothes just to show that you won't, ever.

“Make me!”, and she sighs. You can barely hear it, but you can't forget how it sounds because you've heard her sigh too many times to even try to count. By the time she's gotten up to follow after you, you've made your way almost to the other side of the plane. You stick out your tongue and she's obviously _scaaaandalized_. She's almost caught up but you can't find any good escape plan!

“Dear God,” someone says, and then everything is even louder and there's all of this crazy wind and weird pressure and it feels like warm water got splashed on you and you keep your balance somehow, but Mom is falling over and she hits her head on a seat but it's really hard to think enough to worry and everything is really red all of a sudden, and when you wipe your hand across your face to get some of the water off, your palm comes away all red and sticky and you think about all the times you've skinned your knees pretty bad, but, but, nothing hurts, and there's so much of it.

It seems like everybody is screaming and shouting except for Mom and one or two others, and the plane is shaking and the air is rushing way faster than anything. Those other noises keep happening and the plane shakes every time, and you finally realize what's happening even though there's no way this could ever really happen. Mom always says that good people have good things happen to them and God punishes all the bad people even if they don't know it.

Does that mean Mom is a bad person? You don't want to recognize what it is, but you learn everything about the Empire you can because it's so interesting, so if you're right then there are Universally Applicable Maximum Velocity Heavy Thorn Cannon shots punching through the plane and the plane isn't falling down even though your stomach is all weird and stuff is sliding around and it's hard to breathe right, it isn't all broken and there isn't one of those things coming out of Mom's chest because that can't happen. She reaches towards you and tries to talk but she starts choking and coughing out more ~~blood~~ red stuff and you haven't ever been this scared and everybody thought it was over! The war was over, right, nothing bad was going to happen anymore, and there's so much red everywhere and you try to hold on to something and

 

* * *

**[ 1947 ]**

**< Recon, Engineer  >**

* * *

 

“Sweetheart, pupa, wake up, it's okay, it's just a daymere,” where, who's, but Mom, but you were... you were dreaming. Oh, fuck, oh God, but it wasn't real, you aren't back _there_ , you're in an abandoned house in the Outskirts with your...

They don't really do romance the way humans do, and Maryam called her a pervert for how she acts but she was totally smiling because she quit following anybody's rules too a loooong time ago, so what happens is actually okay, at least for the four of you. You curl up and start to cry (or were you already crying?), and Aradia holds you, she's so warm and sweet you could die. She plants a little kiss on your forehead. It still feels like it just happened, and now you're gonna be depressed all day. _Fifteen_ _years_ and this still happens once in a while. It's such _bullshit_.

“It's okay,” she keeps saying, “it was all awful but it's over now,” and you guess you were talking out loud. Her cheek rubs against the side of your head and you still feel like you're a little girl again, like you're back in... You fucking _hate_ it. Feeling weak. Feeling _helpless._

“You won't die, right? You'll never leave?” God, you hate the desperate whine in your voice, what a fuckin' pussy you're being, but everything's muddled and weird and it just slips out. She laughs, quietly.

“Never ever. I am very much alive, and I intend to stay that way!”

The very tips of her claws run sloooowly and gently up and down your back. It's so nice and tingly and it makes your hair stand up, kinda. You're probably squeezing her too hard but she doesn't ever mind. It's way less foggy in your head, now. Oh, jeez, what were you doing in your sleep? You totally screamed, didn't you. That's _so_ embarrassing.

“... D-did I scream? Like, did I wake everyone up?” She's so good with her claws, so soothing. Maybe you can actually fall asleep again soon. It works sometimes, if she's there. They're all three so wonderful and awesome, but it's just a little different with Aradia. Somehow she just understands how you work better than anyone else alive. Maybe in Alternian terms you could say the pale part of this is just stronger with her, although it definitely doesn't detract anything from the sex.

“No, silly! You were crying and twitching, so I woke you up.” Oh, thank god. It's still humiliating because it's supposed to be them who never sleep right in places like this. You're the one who wakes _her_ up when she's scared and angry and clawing at the sheets. It's not fair that she has to do it for you. It's been _fifteen years!_

At least you manage to stop sniffling, and those _claws_ ... You totally never thought of somebody using their nails (or claws, God, Roxy, at least _try_ to be inclusive) like that until she did it for you the first time. It's kinda incredible and you're maybe practically an addict. Sometimes even when nothing's wrong, ~~you blush and ask~~ you ask if she'll do it and she always does, you're like a cat waiting for someone to pet you. W henever you're sad or tired, she's there, and after you thought about it and realized she'd barely feel your nails normally, you thought that maybe if you were just harder on her strong skin than your instincts tell you a human would like it might be the same, you could try using more pressure than she does on you, and, well, you tried it on her and she practically fainted after about fifteen seconds. _Nobody_ is allowed to joke that you're the squad's meowbeast mascot anymore, except they're all kinds of allowed because you 'secretly' think it's sweet and funny and almost true. Most actual cats probably aren't great with an M2, though. Obviously this makes you _amazing_.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “didn't mean to wake you up,” and she almost hits you in the face with one of her big curly horns whe she shakes her head.

“Shooosh, pupa, you know it's okay, you can think about it later if you need to, there's plenty of time.” Yeah, you know that, but it doesn't mean... it's not like you can... well, okay, she's probably right, because one thing you do believe is that she'd never lie to you in a million years. Actually she almost never lies to anyone, which _has_ sort of come close to getting everyone killed a few times, but then, you've all done totally dumb shit anyway. God knows _you_ fuck up often enough.

You finally move your face off her skin, and she giggles when she wipes all of the snot away, giving you a chance to kiss her on the cheek and throw her for a loop because you're a big cheater. She tenses up and then lets out a long, wavery breath, thighs rubbing against yours in a sort of automatic, animal way, searching for sensation. The sheets were barely big enough to use, but you take what you can get when you're living in the Outskirts. More importantly, her legs accidentally (or is it an accident? You really can't tell with this girl) tug them down partway, revealing a pair of very soft body parts and two deep red nipples that you're _super_ familiar with.

It's totally her fault, but still, why do you get turned on every time you stop being sad or depressed? You're such a fuckin' weirdo. Good thing she likes people who don't make a lot of sense. A shiver runs down your spine at the little muffled cricket noises that come from somewhere in her throat when you cup one of her breasts and run your thumb across her nipple. Her claws quit being gentle and rake up your back, only enough that you'll sting a bit for a few hours, and you inhale sharply. You squeeze your thighs together and she kisses you, her long tongue rubbing against yours, wrapping and unwrapping halfway around. Her nipple is already _rock_ fuckin' hard, and you silently thank God for vestigial body parts. Kneading her breast some, you can't help but marvel at how soft an Alternian's body can feel while still being, like, four times tougher than human skin is. The hand she clawed your back with makes its way to one of _your_ way smaller boobs and palms your own pinkish little nub and _holy shit_ you must have needed this 'cause you feel like you're gonna come right here and now.

The bad thing about loving someone is letting them find out your weaknesses. The great thing about loving someone is _letting them find out your weaknesses_ , and she rolls you over onto your back and uses her elbows to prop herself up partway over you, kissing at the crook of your neck, squeezing your breasts and stroking and pinching your nipples while you slowly soak the mattress, the insides of your thighs slick and slippery. There are as many disadvantages to having a goddamned faucet of a vagina as there are advantages, honestly, if not more. This shit is why you should start keeping extra towels within reach of anything you fall asleep on. You already have buckets all over the place. Yeah, you're buying more towels after this job.  _So_ not negotiable.

She's merciless when she decides to get you like this, nibbling and kissing at your neck, your collarbone, working your boobs over while you whimper and try to kiss back. This works a couple of times, since your arms are now wrapped tight around her ~~'thorax'~~ torso and she's got nowhere to run either, really, and you know she loves the feeling, your tongue humming against hers, hearing you squeak and moan into her mouth. The pit of your stomach is practically on fire, not to mention your frustrated cunt, still caught between your legs and pulsing hard, launching waves of not-quite-enough pressure through to your clit every time you squirm, which is baaaasically every second or two.

Then all of a sudden it _is_ enough oh god oh fuck, and she doesn't even let you slide a hand down there, slinging one of her legs over yours to keep you away. It's less of an orgasm and more of an explosion after her little torture session. You can feel the bed under your crotch go almost as slick as your actual cunt in the span of a couple of seconds and time gets all tangled up, you think your voice is getting more and more shrill until you lose track of that too, your eyes shut so hard that you can see silvery waves and little bursts of weird light.

She's kissing you again and still massaging your breasts, gentler with the temporarily hypersensitive points, almost able to cup the whole things in her hands (God you wish you didn't care about comparison), when the door creaks open and your assault specialist steps shamelessly into the room as you try to catch your breath, hips only just now settling down, twitching without your approval.

How is it even legal for Porrim to be so pretty? Aradia and Jade, too, but nobody except her sleeps in anything like that loose, transparent emerald shift, lace and bottom cut and torn and ragged and beautiful, halfway to wearing nothing, the shift still displaying those hypnotic tattoos some people think are acceptable here in the Outskirts and... other very nice things that gain a strange allure when they're only partway visible.

“You know, some of us were trying to sleep,” she says, “but then I heard this little lady let go like a screech specter, and so much for that.” You try really hard to look sheepish,, but you're still loose-headed and dizzy and hot all over and do a pretty crappy job of it. Porrim looks you and Aradia over with her hairless brow raised as you suddenly notice your beloved psionic is essentially on all fours above you, gathering up shitty battered pillows, oh _God_ , and the queen of negligee shakes her head with a resonant clicking noise that you've learned is the Alternian version of somebody goind _'tsk tsk'_. “I'm not seeing very much red here, girls. That's awfully one-sided, don't you think?”

“Only for a little bit!” Aradia leans down and tugs your sort of limp body up, leaving you diagonal against her piled up pillows. “A little help wouldn't be so bad, though,” she says, huskier than usual. The girl must be pretty wound up. You don't bother trying to hide how you stare at the pointed bright green circles placed so perfectly on breasts that almost put Jade's to shame. There's kind of a reason Maryam is hardly ever wearing anything modest, even if no one really brings it up, and you're totally fine with unfairly sexy women showing off a little bit. Okay, more than a little bit. You're _super_ totally fine with _that_. And nobody, well, nobody minds that you're not quite on the same level, as far as you can tell.

“Mm, I could be convinced,” she murmurs, making her way towards Aradia with her eyes locked on you, your blown-out eyes, the slightly open slit between the slickened thighs your less subtle lover is slowly pulling apart, and you love that she doesn't take off her shift at all, love the emerald staining the fabric where she's already squirming and lashing, and you love the ram-horned face that meets with yours again, and you definitely, definitely love the blazing hot tip that's wandering between your folds and then sliding smoothly inside you, tapered and stretching you more second by second, pulsing out little waves of her _own_ hot slickness, squirming and coiling and uncoiling in time to the wet inner muscles squeezing down every time you lose control, which is to say, constantly.

You should really all go pass out after this, you think to yourself, watching Porrim's hands stroke Aradia's lovely breasts from above, her own very different bulge hilted inside your squadmate, blissing out and surrendering yourself to the sounds and the sights and the girl with her tentacle inside of you, but maybe you just deserve something nice after that horrible dream.

Passing out soon is the smart choice, though; if you want this job to go well, you need to be focused while your finger's on the trigger. Carbines don't aim themselves, even after you and 'Dr.' Harley finish tinkering with them, and you're gonna be pulling that trigger a whole lot of times before tomorrow's over.

 

* * *

**[ 1942 ]**

**< Where Your Future Began  >**

* * *

 

The bayonet ends up lost in the spilling blue guts of one of them, and you almost manage take down a lightly armored Alt with your fists before the purple-eyed one catches you off-guard and pins you down with some insane strength while two others join in to help him out. Him? Her? Does it matter? The sons of bitches seem surprised when they rip open your uniform, find your bandaged chest, and watch your breasts slip out after clawing through those, too, but not _too_ surpirised, and somehow you think this still would have happened even if you hadn't been a girl, if you weren't a stupid teenager who's decent at cheating her way into so many Boys Only clubs. This really doesn't make you feel any better.

You shudder when a long tongue drags across your throat. One of the other Alts pins you even more firmly in place and the last starts to pull down your pants. Your sidearm's unreachable, only knocked a few feet away but still too far to grab even if you could move your stupid arms. Pieces of armor unbuckle and clang to the ground; you figure it'd be pretty hard to rape a girl through heavy plating.

After all of this time, the grim fame of being a miracle, a sole survivor where there shouldn't have been the slightest chance of one, where most of the bodies weren't even recognizable, after Mom, after so much pain and time and work and lies, you're gonna die because a couple of filthy fucking Alts caught you off guard too far from the main engagement and now the last thing you'll ever experience is being violated in probably more ways than you can even imagine.

What was the point? Why? What did you do to _deserve_ this? 'Good people have good things happen to them and God punishes all the bad people even if they don't know it.' Yeah fucking right. Thanks for that little pearl of wisdom, Mom. It sure helped out.

Your pants are down and your briefs are following, cold evening air worming past the top of your pubic mound and in between your legs, like some stupid symbolic shit, as if you needed _that_ . If God punishes bad people, you think maybe he should go get his _own_ gun and then shoot himself in the head.

Eyes shut tight, you wonder how you ever thought you weren't an idiot.

Those eyes open again to the sound of a pebble knocking against the ground. The Alts freeze and turn to face the enemy. There's no one there.

The first blast from the opposite direction takes one of them and turns him into a perforated, gooey mess of olive. Pure instinct takes over and you're rolling, mostly naked and scraping your skin across rough dirt and small rocks, trying to grab your handgun and actually succeeding, forcing yourself to your feet, trying to steady your grip. The other two are turning around in shock when another blast and roaring echo takes off one head in a gush of cerulean, and then Mr. Purple unloads a clip at someone you can't actually see.

It was an ambush and you think it was the same gun both times, meaning there's probably only one other G.I. and he's trying to rescue you and he's taking suppressive fire and you can't fuck around so you tackle the Alt, smashing the weird spiky pistol out of his hand. He stumbles before punching you in the gut with what feels like the force of a sledgehammer, leaving you wheezing and doomed, before a third and final roar disintegrates his shoulder and leaves him screaming, pressed against the hard-packed dirt of the other side of this otherwise-abandoned trench, gushing purple, arm hanging useless from a single quickly tearing muscle.

You stand there in front of him for a moment, the set of eyes trapped in furious horror belonging to the Alt now and not you. You stand there, almost completely naked, shaking for a lot more reasons than the biting cold, and you put a round through his forehead and watch the spray of brain and bone chips before the aftermath of that punch leaves you collapsed against the same trench wall.

Finally, this rescuer comes into view and you don't know whether to give up and cry before your death or to drop the rest of your magazine at the black and jade armored figure standing there with a looted shotgun slung over its shoulder. Nothing makes sense anymore, not one fucking thing, and you've finally forgotten how to care.

The helmet comes off, and the female Alt beneath it stares for a second before turning her head away. You raise your gun slowly, pointlessly, to at least _try_ , but you don't understand. What just happened? Why? _Why?_

The last of your willpower drains away and your gun just falls to the dirt. Battered, naked, humiliated, too tired to hold a fucking gun, you just stare. There's nothing else you can do.

“God damn it,” the Alt says, then turns her head, probably to talk to a new arrival. “You stay shielded and keep watch. I'll handle this.” Her English is excellent, if thickly accented in that surreal, almost alien way. She hops into the trench, landing without a trace of effort, and then reaches back into what must be a hidden compartment in her suit and pulls out... something. When she's standing right in front of you, whatever's left of yourself still shaking, debased, and gushing useless fury, you do your best to at least _glare_ at the thing. At least that much. Her arm moves towards you, and you can't see what she's doing, can't get your eyes to focus all the way.

Something warm drapes over your shoulders, wraps in front of you, and seems to lock itself into place with a magnetic snap.

“Can you walk?”, she asks, and you just nod dumbly. You could probably convince yourself that all of this is a dream if you wanted to, but it's not a dream, it's totally real and none of it makes any fucking _sense._

“Pull up the hood. It's not fitted yet, so at night anybody else will just think you've got tiny horns and a complex about them.” The Alt turns to leave, makes it a few steps, and then turns around again. “Get that projectile dispenser back and keep your eyes wide open.”

She seems to realize that you might have been just a little bit completely full of shit about being able to walk when you stumble instantly, and she catches your hand to help you balance. The armor is cold, but it works. She grabs the gun you've now dropped twice in one day and holds it out. You take it.

“Porrim,” she says, and you blink. “Porrim Maryam. Now let's get a move on already, people.” The other Alt who must be with her, still invisible from where you are seems, to be tapping a foot impatiently. “I mean it! Move your ass, Megido, and you better not fuck around on the battlefield again. Somebody has to cover the rear and this human girl can barely move, so it'll be slow going for a while.”

... 'Porrim' looks back to you, still grasping your hand while you stare, utterly uncomprehending and beaten to _shit_ , then slots her helmet back in place.

“See any other humans around? That means you, lady,” she says through the opaque visor. “As fast as you can manage.” You take a step, and you don't fall. Then another, and another, and then you're walking, barely, but you're armed, you're how you should be, you're dangerous and moving. You don't know what you're walking into or why, but you're alive. Somehow, you're still alive.

“Great, now just try keep up the pace, alright? Captain Serket is _not_ the type to brush off deserters.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Post-WWII" isn't exactly wrong, but it's also not exactly right, either. Future chapters and fics within the series will clarify matters.


End file.
